Have you ever held a worm in the palm of your hand? Not quite his palm, but one of the many pockmark scars along his arms suddenly have a horribly uncomfortable ache to them. Shen Qingqiu's worms are made of blood, and Jon's keenly aware of that - but no amount of awareness can shake the mental image that shoves its way to the forefront of his thoughts, for even a fleeting moment, of Jane Prentiss' swarm taking a very different approach.

He only barely manages to shove it aside before it makes him sick, but that's surely something that will come back for vengeance when he's got his guard down. So much for a restful night of sleep over the next few days.

"He infected you," Jon murmurs, and the flatness that he'd maintained before wavers; try as he might, the notion's clearly affected him, even as he tries to push on. "And you could never truly escape from him again. Another person kept under his thumb, always within reach. Did he release you after this?"